


Dismantle Kid

by faufaren



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Angst, Body Horror, Cybernetics, Cyborgs, Friendship, Gen, GladiaTale, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, No pairings - Freeform, Nonbinary Frisk, Original Character(s), Pacifist Frisk, Post-Apocalypse, Swearing, Teenage Frisk, Worldbuilding, dysmorphia, not sure if there is comfort tbh, oc deuterogonist, sci fi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:07:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28689909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faufaren/pseuds/faufaren
Summary: Frisk told him to move forward, and so he will, because there is never any question, not with anything that Frisk says. He trusts his friend more than he has ever trusted anyone else, and more than he even trusts himself. He'll be happy to follow Frisk to the ends of the earth with his broken body, if that’s what Frisk wants from him.(A redo of an old work.)
Relationships: Frisk & Coyote
Kudos: 4





	1. Press START to Begin

**Author's Note:**

> 08 Jan 2021 patch notes: this work has gone through about a dozen rewrites and reconceptualizations, but this time should be the last. Generic AU name “Archtale” has been changed to more appropriate name “GladiaTale”, with hopes that this moniker hasn’t also been taken already. More fleshed out history and differences occurred in this au. Some terms have changed (again).

_Year 20XX. Six years after the Collapse of HoloEra._

Frisk’s got scavenger duty. Again. Which means that Coyote is probably coming along, too. The monitors know by now what a good pair the two of them make, despite being some of the youngest of the bunch. 

This time, they’ve decided to add three other people to the team. That means the Director wants a big haul from this trip. Migration cycle must be coming up soon. 

Frisk doesn’t exactly remember the names of all the adults in the Compound, but they don’t see any of the Red Names on the roster. That’s good. The number of people on their Red Name list is small, but Frisk won’t take any chances with letting a single one of them onto the same team as Coyote (not after the last experience). 

They find Coyote back at their little shared bunker already geared up and ready to go, both his and Frisk’s pack at the foot of the bunk. Dark eyes flash over to Frisk, attentive and inquiring, even as the teenager lounges on his bunk looking like he has nothing else to do. 

“Thanks for packing,” Frisk smiles. Suiting up takes only a few seconds––jacket, pack, cap, boots. They’re tying their laces when something knocks against the bunk frame, and they look up to see Coyote holding out the trench knife he’d filched from the last haul. 

He offers it to them handle-first expectantly, but Frisk shakes their head. “I’m fine,” they say, feeling the usual pinch of discomfort whenever it comes to these things. Weapons. Damage-dealing objects. Coyote means well, but they’d rather not touch that knife if they can help it. “I’m just the pathfinder. I don’t need anything.” 

At the look Coyote gives Frisk, they shake their head more insistently. They see the digital pupils of Coyote’s artificial eyes expand and contract as he does a once-over check, like he’s calculating their survivability without the protection of the knife, which they don’t even know how to use anyway, and making even more defense protocols around it. 

“Dangerous,” comes the quiet reply, nearly whispered in a low voice, Coyote’s last protest even as he retracts the knife to store it somewhere in his bunk. Frisk hears the frustration contained in the word. It isn’t Coyote’s fault, they know. He always gets antsy whenever they’re sent out— or more specifically, whenever Frisk is sent out. Coyote will probably be happy to do it all on his own if it means Frisk can stay safely inside the compound. 

Frisk shrugs apologetically. “Let’s go,” they say in lieu of anything else, already feeling a bit bad for causing more stress for Coyote. They turn and duck back out as Coyote rolls from his bunk to land silently on the floor in one smooth motion. 

With Coyote following closely behind, they arrive at the checkpoint just on time, and soon enough, they’re given clearance to venture into the forsaken landscape beyond the borders of the compound. 

The three adults joining them on scavenger duty have obviously drawn lots for it and are the unlucky ones of the bunch. They’re nervous and snappy and grumbly, clutching their weapons at every twig snap and loose pebble. Hearing the little clicks of their phasers and rifles clinking against their gear as they trudge along behind Frisk is starting to make them a little twitchy too, but they bear with it. 

This is how a typical scavenger team is assigned: one pathfinder, one guard, and three loaders to carry the goods. They walk in loose formation, with Frisk leading the way, the three adults in the middle, and Coyote bringing up the back. 

The area they’re in is one that is old and familiar to Frisk. They’ve travelled it countless times, first learning it in another team, then eventually leading their own hunts through it. The landscape is rocky and treacherous, with swathes of wild grass and flora covering boulders and outcrops, and sudden sheer drops over cliff edges. In the distance is a great mountain, covered in an impenetrable forest and further blurred by the mist that always hangs vaguely over the whole thing—Frisk knows it was named once, but the name has since been lost somewhere along the way. 

(This land is wild, far removed from any civilizations that once remained of the time before the Collapse. The sprawling supercities are no more, now territories of stationary Golems, consumed and absorbed until what was once great and grand are nothing more than faded memories of what used to be. 

Those are easy to avoid. Frisk knows all the golem territories in the area, has memorized the circuit paths of the nomadic ones. There is very little chance of encountering one with Frisk leading the group.) 

“Fuckin’ supply hunts,” the man grumbles through a thick beard of electric blue curls as they climb over an outcropping of rock, likely caused by the frequently occurring tectonic shifts in the area. “Runts can do it themselves, can’t they?” 

“Please, Tinker,” one of the women snaps back. A laser rifle swings idly by her side. Her goggles are large enough to nearly cover her entire face. “A little trip into the wilds isn’t going to be the end of the world. That already happened.” 

“I like my head where it fuckin’ belongs. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but there’s a reason why no one wants to do this job.” 

“Aw, do the big bad golems scare you—” 

“They fuckin’ scare everyone, don’t pretend you’re not afraid of them either—”

The third adult interrupts with an irritated sigh as they begin to talk over each other. “Dee, Tinker, shut it. ” 

The woman towers over even the burly man called Tinker by at least half a head, if not more, and she uses it to her advantage, intimidating enough to make people listen when she speaks. Perception modules line her shaved scalp on either side, though none of them seem to have been activated for a while. 

She looks at her two sour-faced teammates and raises a thick eyebrow. “Don’t know why you’re so nervous. We’ve got the best pathfinder of the compound. Kid’s a natural.” 

Then her gaze slides off to the side, and she gives a meaningful jerk of her chin. “And we’ve got him.” 

Coyote stares straight ahead, eyes set on Frisk’s back, face wiped of all expression as it usually is. His footsteps are light and swift over the uneven ground even with the extra weight gained from the mechanical augmentations built into him. He doesn’t make a sound or even give a sign that he’s heard the woman, since she hasn’t addressed him directly. They don’t expect him to talk anyway. 

Dee grunts out something vaguely agreeable. “‘Least there’s that. Well trained, isn’t he?” 

“Well-built, too. Good enough firepower for a short trip like this.” The tall woman grins, and reveals two rows of sharpened steel-tipped shark teeth. “Relax, guys. Our very own Gladiadroid’s here, and you know nothing scares him.” 

Frisk hates it when people talk about Coyote like he’s not there. Like he’s a pet or an object they don’t even view as sentient. Out of the corner of their eye, they see the tall one reach back and ruffle Coyote’s hair like he’s a well-behaved dog. Coyote doesn’t even blink. 

It makes their head spin with unresolved rage. Ultimately, they know there’s nothing that can be done about it. Disobedience has always ended badly. Even if Frisk speaks out, it won’t be them taking the fallout for the action. Frisk is sick of watching Coyote take a beating in their place.

They finally reach their first spot––an old site where another compound had stacked up a while ago. Frisk has been keeping their eye on this location for a while now, tracking foot traffic, ready to lead a team here when the compound continues on their migration cycle. Usually everyone makes sure to pack all the valuables and essentials, but there is still a veritable treasure trove of materials that are inevitably left behind in the skeleton structures. 

“Ugh. Things didn’t used to be like this,” Tinker complains as he digs around for anything useful in the heaps. “Fucken hell, back in the day––” 

“Back in the day was HoloEra,” Dee hisses. “And that was only six years ago. You’re making yourself sound like even more of an old geezer than you already are.”

Tinker rolls his eyes, squints at the sacks of suspicious white powder he’d just unearthed from beneath a pile of wooden boards. A sniff reveals them to be the unprocessed form of those water-purifying tablets, and he puts them in his pack. Must’ve been in the middle of production before the group migrated. It’s cheap stuff, but still useful. 

“I’m just sayin,’ if those goddamned golems hadn’t showed up I’d still be in my module drinking a cold batch of Sky-High. World’s gone to shit, and I’m out here risking my neck for a bunch of hydro-pills.” 

“Sky-High? What, you some sort of noble back then? Rich boy.” Dee laughs at him, the sound high and thin. 

“Fuck no. Sure as hell couldn’t even get past the fifth circle with my credits, let alone the Noble Orbits.” Tinker pauses, chews on a thought for a bit, before muttering, “Pretty sure Ages used to be, though.” 

“I wouldn’t be surprised, with those fancy cosmeta-mods of hers. Sure knows how to handle G-Droid boy over there pretty well. Think she used to bet on them in the circuses?” 

“Dee, everyone had a chip in on the circuses. The real question is whether or not she had her own lineup.” 

The woman looks disbelieving. “No way. Only Duke-levels and up could afford that much, no way Ages used to be one of those assholes.” 

“Could be possible, if you had enough sponsors backing you,” Tinker shrugs, “Guess it’s pointless now. Cybercircuses were the first to go. We’re lucky we still have the leftovers, damn useful as they are.” 

The two continue to search through the site in relative silence, roaming gradually further in where their third had gone ahead, filling their packs with all manners of supplies and raw materials. Medicine is prioritized, always being in short supply, as well as other pharmaceutical items. 

That isn’t all, though, and seemingly non-essential things like cooking spices and pens and even half-used rolls of duct tape are met with pleasant surprise. In a world where all manufacturing has come to an indefinite halt, even the smallest things seem invaluable. 

Later on, they head to another site on Frisk’s map, a landfill nearer to the base of the mountain, to collect scrap metal they’ll melt down back at the compound to feed to the fabrication arrays they’re lucky enough to have. The golem that had made its territory there should be making its circuit around the furthest point from their location, so they’ll be safe as long as they don’t take too long… and there haven't been any recent patches.

(Those are the biggest headaches of any respectable pathfinder. There’s nothing they can do to control or even predict these widespread update waves. They tear through the programs of golems in the region, rewriting code and jumbling other things, causing runtime errors and disconnections. Patches always produce rogues that deviated from their normal circuits.) 

Frisk checks their scanner again, noting a blip on the LCD screen that hadn’t been there before. Not anything odd or alarming. Frisk had built that scanner out of salvaged parts and a cannibalized PlayKid Color. It’s a rudimentary device that doesn’t do much more than tell Frisk the general location and composite of stuff in their general vicinity. 

The blip seems to be just a short distance away, around a pile of junk to their right. From the largely unreliable readings of it could be anything from a stack of pure titanium alloy to a bathtub’s worth of polystyrene. 

“I’m gonna check that out,” Ages says when Frisk shows the scan to her. She hefts her pack higher up on her back, and turns to go, saying over her shoulder, “The rest of you stay here and load up. I’ll be back in five.” 

She vaults over the ridge as the team goes back to miserably picking through the dump. Tinker picks up an eroded piece of steel, almost completely eaten away by rust and completely unidentifiable from what it used to be a part of, then tosses it away in disgust. 

Frisk looks after where the woman had disappeared worriedly, feeling a bit off kilter about that odd little blip and not quite knowing why. It should be nothing, their scanner glitches all the time. They sense the attentive gaze of Coyote on their back once again, looks over their shoulder to see the inquisitive look he gives them. 

Frisk gives a reassuring smile as Coyote comes closer to keep pace by their right shoulder, just a step back. He’s always walking behind them, letting Frisk lead the way. 

When asked, he always tells Frisk that he simply feels more comfortable in this position. But Frisk knows what he really means is that it puts him in the most ideal position for watching their back. Whether it’s striking down enemies or shielding with his own body, Coyote has calculated that particular place will make it easiest to protect Frisk from any danger that threatens them, while also completely neglecting his own wellbeing. 

Despite the bitter taste it leaves in their mouth, Frisk has learned to accept this habit of Coyote’s without saying anything, just as they do with many of his other routines. He’s just following the routines that have been stamped into his brain for practically his entire life. Telling him to do otherwise will only result in stress and misunderstanding. 

Frisk knows, from experience and from their many failed attempts to explain to Coyote why he shouldn’t base his entire existence around orders and protocols––that look of panicked bewilderment he’ll get on his face, which always makes him look so sad and confused it hurts to look at him. He’ll look like Frisk had kicked him in the gut without any provocation or explanation why all the while as he frantically tries to figure out what he had done wrong and what he should do to make Frisk happy with him again. 

There’s a distant sound, so small and faint Frisk almost dismisses it for something like wind, except that it gets someone else’s attention. 

“Wait.” 

The sound of Coyote’s quiet voice stops Frisk dead in their tracks. Frisk turns around, but the question on their tongue dies when they see the look on Coyote’s face. 

He’s got that look of concentration that he always gets whenever his weird sixth instinct for danger is alerting him to something. Frisk sees the boy twitch minutely, ears and senses straining to figure out what it is that he’s heard in the distance. 

There’s silence for a bit. 

“What?” Dee snaps impatiently even as she’s already reaching for the laser rifle on her shoulder. Tinker shifts nervously next to her. 

Coyote exhales a slow breath, but he doesn’t answer her. Dee looks like she’s about to say something else when there’s a sudden dull vibration in the air, silently rattling in their eardrums, and then––

A sudden howl, so piercing and deafening that Frisk nearly covers their ears in pain. It’s the cry of a predator that’s caught the scent of its prey, an awful noise that’s designed to induce terror and freeze lesser beings in fear. 

The cry of a golem. Frisk’s gut swoops, and they feel their face go pale. Must have been a patch. 

“Shit!” Tinker drops his pack, spilling scraps and supplies across the ground, and fumbles for his phasers. Dee has her rifle charged up and ready to fire in an instant. 

A hand wraps around Frisk’s arm and they’re herded back behind Coyote, who sinks down into a combative stance, ready to attack or flee at a moment’s notice. 

It’s quiet for a while as they all stand in tense formation, weapons at ready, afraid to move, expecting the golem to jump out at them at any moment. 

Coyote’s fingers flex as he tries to figure out where the golem might be, arms out at his sides, hands at the ready position and still and silent as a statue, the only movement being his eyes, which are darting around furiously. He takes a careful breath and his ears twitch. Every enhancement and modification in him is being worked to the absolute limit to detect even the smallest of changes in the environment around them, every fibre of his being prepared to throw himself into the line of fire if retreat could not be accessed in time. 

Nearby, Dee and Tinker appear to be steadily on their way to panic, nearly vibrating in place, their fingers resting on their triggers without regard for the usual firearm safety procedure. Now isn’t the time for such trivial things. The quiet whine of their charged energy weapons echo through the still air. 

“Where’s Ages?” The question has barely left Dee’s mouth when they hear two shots of a laser blaster echo in the air, followed closely by the eerie rattling howls of the golem. They hear a brief scuffle, and then abruptly nothing. 

“Fuck...” mutters Tinker, eyes wide. Not a word from Ages, not even one last scream or anything before she got royally screwed by that monster. Just an unceremonious kill, and then. Silence. 

“Where is it?” Dee is swinging her rifle around, head swiveling on her neck in hopes that she’ll catch a glance of the golem. “Where the fuck is it?” 

The roar sounds again, sounding much, much closer this time. 

Tinker only has time to turn around before a giant, hulking mass of metal and dirt tears itself out of the shadows, and the man goes down with a scream that gets violently cut off in the middle. Dee yells out a string of curses as she rains ineffectual fire down on the golem’s back, before being taken out just as quickly in a spray of red. 

Then it turns to Frisk, a roiling, ever-shifting heap of machine and mud and junk. They see its giant maw close in upon them, time frozen in place as Frisk meets their impending end. 

Then there’s a flash of chrome and a loud screech of metal as an arm wraps itself around Frisk’s waist and jerks them back just as those jaws clamp down on Coyote’s other arm instead. 

Frisk hears Coyote grunt quietly above them, head tucked beneath his chin protectively. Coyote pivots on one foot and kicks the golem in the face in three quick successions, like a piston. It lets out a ferocious snarl, letting go of his arm. Even for a berserker golem, the sheer amount of raw mechanical strength Coyote must have put behind that attack can’t have been insignificant. 

There’s a silent, tense pause as the two of them face down the great beast and it reconfigures its next sequence of actions. 

Every golem is different, composed of different materials depending on what it consumed and absorbed into its mass. 

This one is about the size of a horse, a thing made of the local earth and garbage it has collected in the vicinity, with shards of metal sticking out its sides like broken ribs. Its single eye is a floodlight of eye-searing crimson that paints everything it turns its gaze upon in a wash of vibrant red. It’s a whorl of motion built from clumps of weeds and rocks and broken CD players, with garbage bags squished between its vertebrae, fashioned from PVC pipes and scrunched-up aluminum cans. Styrofoam takeout containers act as cartilage and its teeth are nothing but jagged jumbles of rust and decayed gears. 

Frisk sees its tail––a lean thing made from twisted wires and electrical cords, with a wicked barb at the end like a fish hook, meant for piercing and gutting––slowly rise up behind its hulking form. Coyote sees it too. 

_“Run.”_

They turn and run. A howl rattles the air from behind them as the golem gives pursuit. 

Frisk’s legs are moving as fast as they can, but Frisk still thinks that they can feel the golem breathe against their neck, hot and acrid like sulfur and getting closer by the second. 

We’re not going to make it, Frisk thinks. I’m too slow. 

Then arms wrap around them and Frisk yelps as they’re scooped up into a piggy-back carry on Coyote’s back. 

“Hold on,” he tells them, cold and battle calm, breath unaffected even in the current situation. (The adrenaline being pumped into his bloodstream is regulated, just like everything else in his body. The engineers had no qualms about how far or deep they wanted to tamper with him.) 

Then Frisk feels the air resistance strengthen, feels the force of gravity being generated as Coyote uses all his mechanical speed to its full capacity. Frisk hears the whir of bionics, the crackle of electricity, and sees the path of churned dirt and dust and destroyed rock face that Coyote leaves in his wake. 

They’re going faster than a vehicle at its highest speed, Frisk knows from experience, and soon enough the golem disappears far into the distance. Even then, it’s a while before they stop, and by that time Frisk can no longer hear the sound of pursuit. 

Frisk is set gently with both feet solidly on the ground. They endure Coyote’s subsequent fussing over them with good grace, reassuring him that yes, they did have all their limbs intact, and no, the golem hadn’t been able to touch a single hair on them, thanks to Coyote. 

Coyote looks at Frisk with something unreadable in his eyes, nods to himself as if verifying to himself that Frisk really is safe and unharmed, and steps back a few feet. He looks around the area, mechanical iris in his eyes expanding and contracting. 

“No path,” he tells Frisk, frowning. 

Frisk takes a look around, and has to agree. The area around them is overgrown with plants and wild flora. The trees are tall and thick, extending into the canopy with no end in sight, more ancient than they have ever seen. 

In the process of getting the golem off their tail, they’ve strayed far from the path they usually follow. Returning to the compound will be much harder now. 

Frisk wanders to a patch of ferns, crouching down and rubbing the soft edges of the leaves in thought. The plant life suggests they are deeper in the forestal areas of the mountain range than Frisk is rather comfortable with. 

Going into deep forest has always been dangerous and warned against. Rumors, half fashioned from reality and passed around in hushed tones, tell of people mysteriously going missing; of people who wandered in and never returned; of others who returned, but missing… _parts._

The low growl is their only warning before a solid force rams into Frisk’s side out of nowhere. They land hard on the ground, the impact driving the breath out of their lungs. 

Somewhere above Frisk’s head, the golem roars. 

“Frisk!” Coyote yells in alarm. Before he can reach them, however, he has to jump back to avoid getting gutted by the golem’s tail, wildly whipping around. 

“Coyote!” Frisk lets out a short scream as sharp talons dig deep into their side, drawing blood and making them light headed with pain. 

The sound that comes from Coyote is a desperate, ferocious thing, loaded with equal parts fear and rage. He charges at the golem about to deal the killing strike, disregarding the danger of the tail altogether in his bid to save Frisk. 

With a cry, he plows headlong into the beast, knocking it entirely off its feet. But the golem twists in midair, like a cat, landing heavily on all fours and its tail strikes out before Coyote can regain his balance. Seeing the glint of metal out of the corner of his eye, he twists wildly, managing to avoid getting impaled on the piercing hook but unprepared for the rest of the corded tail when it comes swinging back. 

It hits him right in the middle, driving bile up his throat from the impact. Were he a regular human, he would have died of organ rupture, and as it is, Coyote still goes flying several feet. But just before he goes out of range, he reaches out blindly and manages to grab the end of the tail in a savage grip, desperate to keep the golem away from the small body on the ground mere feet away. 

Coyote lands hard, hands still wrapped tightly on the tail and he wastes no time in _pulling_. The ground shatters beneath him as he digs his feet in hard and the golem howls as it’s dragged away, thrown into the air, and released. 

The golem swipes at him with its claws, its attention now successfully diverted. Coyote dodges. He looks at it, then to Frisk, then back again, indecisive. He’s breathing hard now, internal processors screaming damage assessments over the top of his vision sphere. He makes the calculations: his chances of defeating this enemy in his current state is not very high, and Frisk is hurt. He isn’t sure how deep the damage goes, but he doesn’t want to take chances. 

On the other hand, it doesn’t seem likely he’ll be able to take Frisk and run all the way back, either. The golem will doubtlessly pursue them, and he can’t lead it back to the compound. That’s a sure way to get ejected. Compound life is often difficult, but it provides resources and shelter and a blanket protection that has proven beneficial time and time again. 

In the end, Frisk makes the decision for him. 

“C-Coyote…” Frisk reaches out for him, pale and breathless. Blood drips from between their fingers, hand clasped to the wound in their side. There’s worry in Frisk’s eyes but it’s worry for Coyote, facing down this bloodthirsty beast by himself, and Coyote can’t understand why even in this situation Frisk would be concerned about him when they should know by now what he is capable of. His strength and durability make grown men weak and powerless in comparison. 

Frisk isn’t weak at all—they have the sort of lean, wiry, scrappy strength that all camp base children have developed from supply hunts, missions, and tasks around the compound. But Frisk is just a normal human child, with no enhancements to their name. Next to Coyote, Frisk is as fragile as glass. Frisk looks so hurt and vulnerable that Coyote can’t help but automatically take a step in their direction. 

But like a trigger pulled, this minuscule movement diverts the golem’s focus back on Frisk, who freezes in place as the predator’s scarlet gaze lands on them. 

Coyote is already in motion before the golem lunges. He throws himself at Frisk, scooping them up just as razor-edge claws tear into his back. He lands and rolls across the ground, bracing his arms around Frisk to avoid squashing them in the process, grunting when the impact sends the new wounds on his back into flares of white pain. 

“Y-your back—!” But Coyote is already dodging the next attack that comes, taking Frisk with him again. The next time he lands, the ground feels uneven beneath his feet, pulling him out of balance. 

He looks back. There’s a sudden drop in the ground elevation he hasn’t noticed before, but overgrowth blocks him from seeing more. 

He shouldn’t have done that. Out of the corner of his vision, the golem pounces. Coyote only has time to stumble back before it descends upon them. 

On the next step back, his foot lands on empty air. 

The golem’s claws miss his face by an inch as he falls backwards into the massive hole in the ground. With another echoing howl, the golem falls with them. 

The air around them becomes cooler, damper, as they descend underground, and the golem’s roars pierces through the sound of the air whipping past them. 

His mind is on the precious cargo in his arms, though––on the fingers clenched tightly in his shirt and the hair tickling his nose, from the head beneath his chin. He wraps Frisk tighter in his arms and turns them around so that Frisk is on top and his back faced the bottom. He braces himself, knowing that a fall from this height would do damage, no matter how strong his body is. 

It’s a softer landing than expected. Coyote grunts as all the air is driven out from him, as the impact splatters his blood across the golden flowerfield they’ve fallen into. His back flares anew with a new throbbing pain. But Frisk is still in his arms, clutched tightly to his chest, and from the sound of their heartbeat, Coyote can tell that no new injuries had been added. Good. 

Then Frisk coughs. It’s a wet, horrible noise that is nothing good. Coyote freezes. 

The wound from earlier. 

“Frisk?” he touches their hair lightly, suddenly afraid. He repeats himself, a tinge of desperation in his voice now. “Frisk?” 

The body in his arms moves slightly, and Coyote can feel the tremble of exertion that movement costs. Frisk’s head turns upwards, and they give him a smile that even he can tell is entirely forced. 

“Hey, Coyote,” Frisk says, but their voice sounds weak, the sound barely there. “Thanks for saving me again…” something in their breath catches and they start coughing again. 

Coyote sits upright, clutching Frisk’s body, which shakes with wet, bloody coughs. His brain spits out damage analysis as he stares in helpless horor. Blood in the airway. Punctured lung. Possible broken ribs. Difficulty breathing. Every harsh cough causes Coyote to flinch, as he tries to think of what to do, how to help Frisk, how to make them better, how to fix the problem. 

There’s bloody phlegm dripping from Frisk’s lips and Coyote can’t do anything but watch Frisk cough and gasp and then grow limp in his arms. Coyote stills. 

Nearby, the golem lands, dislodging dirt and plastic junk from itself and sending up a whirlwind of golden petals flying around the hollow. It emits a tear-rending cry; a blood-curdling sound that would make any living creatures flee. 

But Coyote can’t look anywhere other than Frisk’s too-pale face, the blue beneath their eyes and red speckled across their chin. Coyote doesn’t hear anything other than Frisk’s shallow, labored breathing, and suddenly the world boils itself down to one singular sensation. 

_Rage._

He rolls over, placing Frisk carefully on the field of flowers before standing up (he would have wondered at them––at the mysterious golden flowers flourishing at the bottom of the earth, at the enormous cavern that is hollowed out as if something enormous had nested there centuries ago--he would have definitely asked questions if his mind hadn’t blanked in _black, murderous fury_ ). The golem shakes itself off from the fall. 

Coyote knows he isn’t a fixer. Healing wounds and caring for people and making things right again––that is something only Frisk knows how to do. But Coyote knows how to be the soldier. He knows how to hurt and kill and destroy. That is what he has been designed for. That is the only thing he knows how to do. 

Coyote attacks.

* * *

It is usually extremely difficult to kill a golem. The chances are so low it might as well be a zero possibility without an abundance of luck and power. The best thing to do when a golem is nearby is to hide and wait until it goes away. 

The monsters watch in the shadows with a sort of horrified amazement as the human child completely rips the golem to shreds. 

The boy is ferocious, a feral snarl on his face as he tears bits and pieces off from the giant beast, flinging dirt, metal, and landfill clutter everywhere. Little by little, the golem is reduced in size until the boy finally reaches its innermost flesh core, and then he catches the golem by the edges of its core and pulls its meat apart and _continues to pull_ until it starts to split apart at the seams and the golem’s howls turn into rattling death shrieks. 

There is something strange and metallic on his limbs, seemingly covering them, though the monsters are too far away to get a clearer look, and the boy moves too fast, his strength entirely too enormous to be human. 

When the golem is reduced to nothing but a pile of steaming flesh and twitching metal, its dark blood seeping into the buttercup field, the boy runs back to the other human, whom the little monsters can tell is wounded from the smell of them. Strangely enough, the boy makes sure to hastily scrub the blood from his face and wipe his hands on the flowers to rid them of the rank gunk before he dares to touch the fallen human. 

The monsters are wary. Naturally so, after witnessing such a brutal battle. After the first attack, everyone has been a little more cautious, a little more untrusting towards humans and anything that comes from the Surface. 

But one of the children is injured, and despite the earlier display of violence, the other human appears desperate and in genuine distress. It isn’t a monster’s nature to ignore the cry for help from a child, no matter what they saw before.

* * *

The creature that approaches him is nothing like what he’s ever seen in his life, but she speaks gently to him in a language he knows and offers aid, and Coyote is desperate enough to save Frisk that he accepts it despite the instinctual paranoia ingrained into him telling him not to trust _anyone._

She introduces herself as Toriel. 

Coyote follows her through the labyrinth, to the place he is told these new, unknown creatures call Home. 

(There are more of the strangest things; creatures that try to look like frogs but don’t seem to have gotten it exactly right, creatures that have the shape of a carrot but with wide grinning faces, and others of all varieties that he doesn’t have the mind to keep track of.)

Just as Coyote observes his new surroundings, Toriel also takes the opportunity to take a better look at the strange human boy, who hadn’t given his name yet. For that matter, he hasn’t spoken a word beyond “save Frisk.” 

She watches how he flinches away from the Froggits who come near, curious at the new arrivals in the Ruins, and she sees him eye the Dummy warily when they pass it by. Carrying the small hurt child, whom she deduces is the one named Frisk, she doesn’t attempt to take the boy’s hand when they cross the spike trap puzzle, but she doesn’t miss how he makes an aborted motion as they start to head onto the secret path. 

The strange metal on him she’d seen from afar turns out to be what she can only recognize to be cybernetic prosthetics. 

She hasn’t seen them since the War, so many long decades ago. 

She didn’t expect that the humans would be still practicing those gruesome methods—didn’t think the knowledge of that vile particular sort of technology wouldn’t have gone obsolete by now, as abominable as it had been back then. 

From what she can see through the shredded tears in his shirt, his arms have been totally replaced by these machines. She doesn’t know if his legs are the same, but from the weight of his footsteps and how deep his feet sink into the dirt, she suspects that it is. 

Though it is old science, she can easily recognize the major advancements in technology since she last saw mechanical augmentations. 

The design is sleeker, more intricate. Built to be closer to the human form now than simply clunky robotic parts grafted over limbs. And… not merely flesh-deep levels of altercations, as it had been when the human soldiers fought in the war. No, it goes deeper, though she can’t tell how much more. It’s been a while since the last child fell from the Surface, she doesn’t know how far human technology has gone. 

From what she’s seen, she’s grateful the monsters haven’t yet achieved that level of advancement, if that’s what pursuit of science makes of genius minds. 

They reach Home, and Toriel places the child named Frisk in bed after an arduous process of healing the fairly extensive injuries the child had acquired. Wounds inflicted by the golems, in particular, have always been more difficult and resistant to healing magic. 

(She offers to heal the wounds on the boy’s back, but he declines, insisting that Frisk takes priority. He had looked surprised at the mention of it, as if he’s forgotten he’d been hurt in the first place. He flinches back from her when she makes a move toward him, an inadvertent and automatic response, and Toriel doesn’t attempt to touch him after that.) 

The boy refuses to go anywhere where Frisk isn’t within eyesight. He stands guard at the bed, watching over the child’s resting form with a silent intensity that Toriel doesn’t quite know how to react to. 

She inquires about his preferences— _cinnamon or butterscotch_ —just as she has done for the children that have come before. To no avail, when the boy, still nameless, stares at her in wide-eyed, abject confusion, as if he has never even heard of the two spices. 

Suppressing a sigh, Toriel goes into the kitchen to make the pie anyway. Snail pie would’ve been nice, but it may be a little bit too heavy on the palette, especially for the recovering Frisk, once the child awakes. Digging through the cupboards reveals that she in fact has only the ingredients for butterscotch, and that asking for preference had been entirely moot. 

When it comes time for bedtime, Toriel checks on the children’s bedroom one last time, only to see that Coyote has taken the blanket and is now curled up on the floor against Frisk’s bed. The two slices of butterscotch pie remain untouched, now cold, still in the same place she’d left them originally. 

As if sensing her presence, the dark form at the foot of the bed shifts slightly, and the boy lifts his head. He stares at her just as he has done since their meeting––silent, unreadable, intense. 

His eyes glow faintly in the shadows. The rings of digital dials that make up his eyes pulse and spin lazily around his pupil, eerily sharp behind messy bangs. 

Toriel bids him a good night, and just refrains from locking the door.


	2. Tutorial Sequence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for small mention of suicide ideation (towards end of chapter)

The stories of monsters have always circulated the human network somehow, in some way. Whether by conspiracy theorists or vagueposts on the Grid, which had been officially declared lost after the last few servers were confirmed to have deactivated three years ago, or by word of mouth, as most information is passed around nowadays. 

But even then, the concept of the monster kingdom exists little more than fairytales and myths, told to entertain children or used to explain away strange events in anecdotes told around the table. Only the most superstitious of people ever give any real credence to the stories, and those crowds are usually regarded in the same way most people treat flat earthers or post-era vegans. With side eye glances and a lot of sniggering behind backs. 

With the way they’d literally fallen through a large hole in the ground and encountered the same monsters described in those stories, it sure gives the whole legend a whole lot more integrity. 

Coyote keeps his eyes fixed on Frisk’s still form in the bed, tucked so snugly into the blankets only the brown mop of their hair is poking out. He watches the rise and fall of the comforter as Frisk sleeps on, taking comfort in the slow, steady breaths that they take now, so different from that awful scene when the two of them had first fallen into the Ruins. 

He wonders what Frisk will think of all this. 

Toriel reminds him of one of the women at the compound who used to sneak him sweet buns whenever the others weren’t looking. Coyote still remembers her name. Bijou had been close to Frisk, and by extension, had gotten to know Coyote as well. Other people had thought the woman was strange, wasting her time with the compound’s oddest orphan children, but Coyote remembers why he liked her––fierce like a fire but warm like a hearth, the woman had more compassion and strength of will than most of the people in the compound combined. 

Bijou used to be a mother before she lost the first two to the golems and the third to infection. After that, she took care of the compound’s many orphans until one day she volunteered for a mission no one else would take and never came back. 

Perhaps those few stark similarities between Bijou and Toriel are what stops Coyote from sneaking out of the cozy little house with Frisk tucked into his arms in the dead of the night. Perhaps that is why Coyote waits all the way to when morning supposedly comes, hours later. 

Well, that, and the fact that Toriel has done an above-adequate job in healing Frisk’s injuries. Magic is very useful, Coyote has to admit. That alone places Toriel on the moderately short list labelled ‘People who are good for Frisk’s continued health and wellbeing.’ 

There are no windows, no sun and moon cycles in the belly of the underground to track the progress of night and day. No stars to even estimate their approximate location. But Coyote knows when morning arrives from a little digital ping in his ear that tells him how many hours it’s been since he last ate, and at what percentage his energy levels remain. 

The wounds on his back from the golem have stopped bleeding sluggishly only hours ago, and now when he moves he only feels the crust of coagulation. He thinks there are going to be scars, like what usually happens with any wound inflicted by a golem. The dried blood on his shirt is making the fabric stiff and uncomfortable, but Coyote hadn’t been willing to let anyone touch his back to bandage it up, so he’d just let it scab up on its own. 

A few minutes later, he hears the soft thud of Toriel’s fuzzy footsteps come down the hall, pause for a few moments outside the door of the bedroom where Coyote and Frisk reside, then continue on past. 

Coyote relaxes from the position he hadn’t been aware he’d automatically assumed, fingers twitching toward the picture frame on the drawer, ready to crack it open and use the glass shards for distraction. 

(Then… engage in combat. He doesn’t know which one would win—his cybernetics against Toriel’s brand of monster magic––but a few fireballs doesn’t sound too damaging. He’s survived worse, he’s pretty sure, and he has a sort of morbid faith in his old sponsors’ engineers. They made sure to build him well.) 

When the body on the bed shifts and Frisk’s eyes flutter open, Coyote is there in an instant, crashing to his knees at their side. He hesitates then, hands raised to help but afraid to make contact, hovering uselessly just inches away. Frisk gets their elbows underneath them and makes the effort to sit up, visibly struggling, and it’s only then that Coyote finally gathers up the courage to bring a metal hand to Frisk’s back and ease them up the rest of the way. 

“G’morning,” says Frisk. The words slur together and it’s a little sleepy-sounding. They’re obviously disoriented but the moment Frisk catches sight of him, they smile, and it’s like having the clouds clear from the sky. Looking at the way Frisk smiles at him is like waking up fully rested, like tasting cold, clean water. 

Coyote feels something lift from his chest and all of a sudden he can breathe easier now. “Frisk,” he whispers, like it’s a sigh of relief. 

The past few hours he watched Frisk sleep away on that cheery little bed had been spent in constant worry, constant uncertainty and the sharp feeling of being _lost_ gnawing slowly away at him. 

Without Frisk, he has nowhere to go. No direction, no orders to follow. He can’t imagine an existence without their steadfast smile to follow, their all-encompassing kindness and love of everything to fill in the empty spaces. A world without Frisk is something faded, blurry, a picture painted in grays and smudges and of no worth at all. He’ll be left to stumble blindly around, without any hope of finding himself again. He doesn’t know what he’d do if Frisk ever went away. Die, probably. 

But right now, Frisk is awake. Everything will be alright, as long as he’s by their side. 

“Where are we?” Frisk asks, looking curiously around the room. 

“Somewhere underground,” Coyote answers, suddenly awash with great shame when he finds that he cannot be more specific than that. “We’re in the kingdom of Monsters,” he adds rather belatedly. 

Frisk blinks at him, but doesn’t discount the statement outright, which just goes to show how open minded they are to even the most absurd of statements. Or perhaps it is the fact that Coyote has never told a joke in his life. “Monsters?” 

“You were healed by a lady monster using magic. She calls herself Toriel. Currently we are in a safehouse, or some sort of base where she lives,” Coyote tries to clarify, as Frisk’s eyebrows just keep climbing higher with every word. He feels a stab of dismay. Frisk has every right to get upset. He shouldn’t have allowed them to remain in such a foreign, unknown location for so long, especially unconscious and completely defenseless. 

“Toriel calls it Home,” he mumbles, remembering the fondness with which Toriel had said it, and the melancholy in her gaze. He figures that the name must mean something significant. 

Frisk looks carefully at Coyote. They wonder if Coyote has any idea what that word means, but only half-hoping that he does. In the end, though, Frisk knows all too well that he probably has never heard of it in his life. 

Frisk hasn’t spent their entire life in the compound, which has never been and probably won’t ever be a home to either of them. Frisk had been old enough to remember what had existed before the fall of HoloEra. They count themselves as one of the lucky few born in their generation who had once known the feeling of having a home, years ago. 

“I’m sure it’s alright, then,” Frisk says softly, because they haven’t missed the increasing tension in Coyote’s shoulders, the way he looks warily at them like he’s expecting them to yell at him for doing something wrong, for failing to be perfect. That familiar lowered head, waiting for pain to be dealt out. 

As sad as it may be, by now Frisk has gotten Coyote’s protocols down so well, they usually have a good idea as to what he’s stressing himself out about at any given instance. 

Despite that, Coyote still looks a little uncertain, even if he doesn’t look like he’s mentally beating himself up anymore. He asks very hesitantly, “Home… Home is a good thing?” 

“Uh huh, it’s one of the best things you can have. Very rare these days.” 

Now Coyote is looking more impressed than anything. “It must be very powerful. I wonder what sort of defense measures it has.” 

Frisk nearly bursts out laughing, but manages to keep it down to a strangled-sounding snort. Coyote doesn’t appear to have noticed. 

“Auto-detection emission rays, maybe?” The boy muses thoughtfully. “I’ve seen those melt straight through a person.” 

“Maybe.” Trying to smother the amusement that surely must be showing through on their expression, Frisk twists around and swings their feet onto the floor in an effort to get out of bed. They stop there for a moment, though, as black spots overwhelm their vision. The almost instantaneous transformation Coyote goes through as he shifts from thoughtful fascination to first degree alarm is almost comical. 

Frisk looks down at their socked feet. “Where are my boots?” 

As Coyote scrambles to find their boots, Frisk does a cursory examination of their once-injury. They feel nothing there––no sting, no lingering ache, no scar––nothing to ever mark that they had been injured in the first place. _Monster magic_ , Frisk concludes with a sort of incredulous awe, and nearly can’t believe that all those fairy tales about the Underground and the war between humans and monsterkind are actually _real._

“Hey,” Frisk says, huffing in laughter a bit. Coyote, who had gone and fetched their boots, is now attempting to tug one up their foot. Frisk kicks lightly in playful protest, and suddenly Coyote is nowhere near them; he’s standing three steps back from where he’d been, his back straight and hands tucked behind him like he’d just touched fire. 

“I’m sorry, Frisk,” he says solemnly. “It won’t happen again.” 

He bows his head, again––that habitual posture Frisk knows may as well be programmed into him by now, the same submissive position Frisk has seen Coyote assume hundreds of times at the compound when he’s waiting for _punishment,_ which usually includes some sort of beating or prolonged starvation that makes Frisk’s blood _boil_ with anger. 

Frisk sighs, partially in defeat and partially out of heartbreak for her friend that he still occasionally treats Frisk the same way he behaves with the rest of all the awful people he’s met in his life. Sometimes they wonder if Coyote has ever had a kindhearted person to protect him before he met Frisk and other times they think that maybe it is best to leave that question unanswered. 

“It’s okay, Coyote, you did nothing wrong,” Frisk assures him as they reach down to lace up their boots. “I just wanted to tell you that I can do it myself, that’s all.” 

Coyote nods, looking like he’s taking notes in his mind and ingraining it into his memory. 

“Is… that pie?” Frisk asks, in lieu of letting out another sigh. They had woken up to the smell of something sweet in the room, and the sight of two slices of pie on separate plates set out on the floor as if someone had personally delivered it to the bedroom has Frisk curious. 

“The lady monster who healed you. She baked––” Here Coyote pauses, as if skeptical of the legitimacy of the next word, “––butterscotch pie.” 

“Huh.” Frisk takes a second to appreciate that. A monster who bakes pie for two grimey humans who’d fallen into her home. It’s a better welcome than what they’d receive anywhere on the surface, that’s for sure. “That’s so nice of her, did you not feel like eating?” 

“I.” This time Coyote frowns in thought. He glances at the two slices of pie, sitting innocuously by the door, and looks back almost helplessly at Frisk. “I can’t identify some of the ingredients in it. There may be something in there that’s harmful or potentially poisonous. We still don’t know whatever end goal the woman monster has in helping us.” 

Frisk raises their brows knowingly. “If she’s really going to eat us or something, do you think she would’ve healed me first or waited this long?” they point out. “In other words, you had no idea what to do when someone genuinely helped us out of the kindness of their heart, gave us a bed to sleep in, and baked us a pie on top of it.” 

Coyote looks almost scared in his wide-eyed, puppy-like confusion. “I’m,” he stops, not knowing what to say. “I’m sorry.” 

“Come on,” Frisk says, standing up. “Let’s go say hello to the lovely pie-making monster lady who healed me.”

* * *

What does it mean, Frisk wonders, when a place as barren as this—but which still has all the makings of a family household, given the title of “Home”—has just one lonely occupant, faithfully tending to it as if she is still waiting for the rest of her family to come back home. 

Nothing happy, they’re sure. For all that Home is painted in comfy beiges and decorated with flowers and plump typha plants, there is a quiet sense of tragedy that belies all the cheerful yellows strewn about the place. 

“Hi, I’m Frisk. Thank you for helping us,” Frisk beams at the monster who’d introduced herself as Toriel, clutching Coyote’s hand as the boy just about hovers protectively over them, tense and coiled, like a metal-covered guard dog. “And for putting up with this clueless oaf. I know how weird he can get.” 

Frisk nudges Coyote to show that they only mean well, and Coyote just looks back at them in nervous confusion. Toriel watches all this with a warm look on her pale-furred face. 

She has a rather soft glow about her, Frisk’s noticed. Not in the sense that Toriel literally glows, though Frisk won’t be surprised if there are monsters out there who glow in the dark. But in the sense that despite towering a whole two heads-worth above them and the sharp ivory horns upon her head, Toriel exudes such warmth, grace, and steadfast benevolence that it was no wonder Coyote had trusted her with Frisk’s unconscious body within the first few minutes of their meeting. He probably hadn’t stood a chance against her. 

Toriel catches the eyes of the silent boy standing next to Frisk, and remarks, ever so gentle, “I still haven’t caught your name.” 

And with that simple query, he seems almost _startled_ by her, his mouth opening slightly. He glances at Frisk, as if uncertain, or oddly, asking for permission, and then when he receives an encouraging response, slowly returns his gaze to Toriel. 

His expression, when he answers her, is almost fragile in the way he’s wiped it clean of all emotion. Vulnerable, even when he has drawn over himself one of the most impressive masks of indifference Toriel has seen. “Coyote,” he mumbles, and his eyes dart to her face like he’s trying to gauge if he’d given her what she wanted before locking on to a point somewhere around her knees. 

It’s a strange name, but nothing so ridiculous to warrant such a reaction. Toriel is puzzling herself over why Coyote had seemed so surprised by such a common thing like asking for his name when she finds herself staring at his chrome mechanical limbs. 

A sudden, grim realization rises to the forefront of her mind. 

The two humans haven’t yet had the chance to clean up much beyond what Toriel had done to wipe the blood off Frisk’s skin when she was healing them the night before. They are still fairly dusty, sweaty, clothes stained with blood and golem plasma and torn in various places. (She made a mental reminder to herself to rectify that very soon.) 

She can see the scars on Coyote’s sides. Thin and long, like raised lines drawn over the places on his flesh body where it would hurt the most. There’s more of it to be seen beyond the rips in his shirt that look to be from the golem’s claws, but the glimpse Toriel gets is enough to put the general picture together. An awful picture where children are shocked almost speechless by simple common decency and carry old whip marks on their skin. 

Surprised that someone had asked to know his _name._ she wonders, rather darkly, what the boy is used to being called instead. She takes a careful breath. 

“A lovely name,” Toriel declares with a smile, and doesn’t miss the look of approval she gets from Frisk. “I’m glad to finally know it.”

* * *

It’s rather ridiculous how easily Frisk wins over the affections and good will of Toriel and the lesser monsters of the Ruins. Almost immediately upon awakening, Frisk observes their new environment, learns about it, and adapts seamlessly. They show off their beautiful smile and their easy laugh and their endless optimism, and then by the time anyone bothers to notice, Frisk is already friends with everyone in the area and there is no going back. 

But it’s another matter entirely for the other human that fell down with Frisk. To their credit, the monsters of the Ruins certainly do try their best. Of course they do. They speak to him, try to instigate play in their own ways, but every attempt is met with reactions that only bewilder and frighten them even further. 

None of it surprises Coyote. People have always liked Frisk better because Frisk has the warmer and bigger heart. Sometimes it seems like it shouldn’t be possible for someone to have that much goodness in them but somehow Frisk makes it possible. It isn’t hard for Frisk to love and it doesn’t take much to love them back. 

He’ll always be amazed by Frisk’s ability to brainwash everyone into thinking they’re sweet and innocent because they really, actually, are. Just also perfectly aware what kind of effect they have on other people and having no qualms about using that to their utmost advantage. Coyote doesn’t think he can be prouder of them than he already is. 

On the other hand, Coyote can’t seem to avoid the wariness, the caution, the startled and often avoidant glances. He doesn’t smile like Frisk does, he doesn’t understand the difference between play-fighting and actual battle. They’ve seen him rip apart a golem like it was so much shredded paper, they’ve seen him in the midst of blood, rage, and _violence. _Frisk will never allow themselves to descend to such things but for Coyote it comes so easily.__

__To the monsters, he must seem like an entirely different species than Frisk._ _

__He doesn’t mind it that much. If his perceived label is a scary, potential danger, then just by having Coyote stand next to Frisk for comparison, it means the monsters will be that much more receptive and trusting of Frisk._ _

__The social isolation that comes as a consequence is something he can easily ignore through years of practice, and besides that, Coyote can’t imagine himself ever being able to do what Frisk does so easily and openly. His metal heart has only ever had room for just one person and one person only._ _

__Still, there’s one unexpected variable in the equation – Toriel._ _

__Toriel, with her graceful wisdom and infinite fount of patience extremely befitting for a being with the title of Caretaker. Or so he has heard from snippets of conversations around the Ruins when the monsters don’t know he’s there._ _

__It doesn’t take much to see that there’s something _more_ about her. Something that sets her apart from the rest of the monsters in the Ruins. She gives off the feeling of something too _great_ , too _full,_ as if her presence extends out beyond the physical limits of her form, beyond the visible plane. Somehow Toriel can step into any room, and instantly every occupant knows that she’s there. When Toriel speaks, everyone listens. When she laughs, the world brightens as if there is actual sunlight shining down in the Underground. _ _

__She doesn’t laugh quite as often. Frisk says that it’s sad and a great shame, since Toriel’s smile is lovely, so they try to make her as happy as possible, as often as possible. Coyote is just glad that Toriel doesn’t have the habit of warping reality on a regular basis. He’s already having trouble keeping up with this new foreign world alone._ _

__With that feeling of _too-bigness_ and, more distinctly, immense power bubbling just beneath her fur, Toriel seems entirely unaffected by Coyote, unlike many of the lesser creatures. _ _

__“How did you and Frisk come to meet?”_ _

__Coyote drags his gaze away from watching Frisk playing a game with the Froggits, to the matron monster gently rocking in her wooden chair as she idly flips through a book about snails. They’re on what would be the porch of the house called Home, Toriel’s rocking chair dragged outside so they can all spend time in the same general location._ _

__Frisk looks like they’re having fun. Coyote doesn’t feel the appeal of joining in, but he’s still happy for Frisk. It’s been a while since he has seen them laugh so freely like that._ _

__“Compound merge,” he says, in response to Toriel’s question. Questions, like orders, must always be answered._ _

__It’s very strange to interact with Toriel. The other monsters keep away enough that he doesn’t have to worry about them, but for some reason Toriel seems adamant in seeking out Coyote’s presence. Simply to converse with him, as she has tried to assure him. To get to know him better, is the implication, and he still isn’t convinced that’s all Toriel wants from him._ _

__There’s something about Toriel that makes Coyote uneasy and unsure._ _

__Toriel is supposed to be the master around here, isn’t she? That’s what her position as ‘Caretaker of the Ruins’ implies, anyway. The Ruins are her domain. It’s pretty obvious that every other monster answers to her and whatever she says (or doesn’t say – Toriel’s disappointed glare is like a weapon of its own). So why isn’t she acting like one?_ _

__Coyote has dealt with these figures all his life. Master, monitor, leader, boss, caretaker, no matter what the locals call it, the meaning is more or less the same. He knows how they work, how they tend to behave, what they all eventually want when someone is placed in their utter and complete control._ _

__But when Toriel looks at him with such obvious kindness in her eyes, Coyote is thrown off balance. Toriel is soft, gentle, and considerate. She seems to understand that he gets on edge if things are too loud, and that no one but Frisk is allowed to touch him. Coyote keeps waiting for the moment he does something she doesn’t like and the facade is dropped, but it never seems to come._ _

__It’s screwing with his nerves. His anxiety grows with every minute he spends in Toriel’s presence and she does nothing but to feed the two of them, shelter them, and generally take care of them without asking for anything in exchange._ _

__“Five years ago,” he remembers to add, because sometimes people don’t like it when a response is too short. “Frisk was ten. Part of the larger group. I was running with a nomad party before we merged.”_ _

__Toriel makes a noise of intrigue. “And how old were you at the time?”_ _

__Coyote takes a little too long to respond, but another voice answers for him: “Twelve, we think.”_ _

__Frisk plops down on the ground next to Coyote, settles in comfortably right up against him in the way they’re both so used to now, from countless cold nights in their bunks spent huddling together for warmth. Absently, Frisk brushes their fingers through the crimson leaves around them as they go on to explain, “Neither of us know Coyote’s real birthday, but his files put his birth about seventeen years ago.”_ _

__It’s a simpler explanation than saying that the files they snuck into the Monitor’s office to look at had actually recorded Coyote’s age and the year when he was first taken and initialized in the Circuses. It was always easier to do the operations on bodies that had yet to develop._ _

__Trying to get away from that line of thought, Frisk grins and says teasingly, “He’s so old, Toriel.”_ _

__Coyote’s expression does some sort of complicated maneuver through a whole smash of emotions before he decides to settle on a bewildered frown. “I’m only two years older than you,” he gets out, sounding only just a little like he’s protesting. Mostly he’s probably wondering why Frisk would call him old if only for the fact that aging for people like him is a flaw that would get him decommissioned, or worse, cast out, back in the day. Frisk identifies that, and sighs. Oh, Coyote and his eternal struggle with developing a sense of humor._ _

__Toriel giggles. “You both are quite young, from my perspective,” she tells them. “I, myself, am over a hundred years old.”_ _

__“ _What,”_ Frisk exclaims, scandalized. “You look amazing. How.” _ _

__“Monsters rely on their souls to exist, not their physical forms. As long as my soul still persists, I will never die.”_ _

__“That’s so cool,” Frisk gushes._ _

__And for once, Coyote seems to engage in the conversation out of his own will, as he nods along in agreement. “You must be very strong,” he murmurs, visibly impressed. He’s looking at Toriel with a new kind of consideration, like he’s re-evaluating her, and there may actually be genuine respect in his eyes._ _

__If Toriel could blush over her fur, she would. “I – well, I suppose. I should hope that I am, being the Ruins’ Caretaker.”_ _

__“Still. Over a hundred years,” Coyote mutters to himself in audible disbelief. He shakes his head a bit, like a dog getting rid of fleas. “No one in the Rings ever survived to thirty.”_ _

__Toriel stills. “The… Rings?”_ _

__Frisk casts an uncertain look at Coyote, who doesn’t seem to register it, before looking back at Toriel, then hesitantly begins with, “You see how Coyote has his, um… cyber-mods?” At Toriel’s positive hum, they divulge, “Well, he’s sort of out of the norm there. At least to the degree that he’s been modified. They call people like him gladiadroids. G-droid for short.”_ _

__The confusion must have shown on Toriel’s face because Frisk goes on to explain further. “Seeing that you monsters haven’t been on the Surface since before HoloEra – oh, you probably don’t know what that is either, huh?”_ _

__“That I do,” Toriel assures them. Though only roughly. She knows it’s what the humans call the history period after the Great Human-Monster War. Like most national-scale conflicts, the war had brought about a wave of rapid technological advances in human sciences that propelled their civilization into what eventually became known as HoloEra. She knows that part of that scientific advancement had come from the bionic technology the human soldiers had used in the war. And now, she supposes she can predict what that has led to._ _

__Frisk looks relieved. “Oh, great. I’m not that solid on historical events, almost forgot everything they taught us when there used to be school. So back in HoloEra, some of the biggest, most popular things were the CyberCircuses. I swear everyone at least had a friend who thought they were like the most radical shit ever.”_ _

__“Language, my child,” Toriel scolds lightly._ _

__“Whoops,” Frisk smiles apologetically. “Anyway, the Circuses had a lot of stuff going on, but the main feature was their gladiator rings. Filthy rich Nobles built their own lineups by fitting kids with cybernetics and pitting them against each other in fights. They’d be sponsored by other Nobles and even corporations, while everyone else gambled around them. That’s who gladiadroids are. Coyote used to be one of them.”_ _

___“Oh,”_ Toriel breathes, feeling rather stunned with horror at the moment. _ _

__Coyote nods as if to corroborate this information. “No one ever got that old on the lineups. You start slowing down. Either you get taken out in the ring or the masters decommission you anyway.” He pauses, as if remembering something from the past. “But the ones who reached twenty or twenty-five and just kept going… they were… terrifying. You just knew there was a reason why they were still there.”_ _

__Frisk can’t help but staring a little. One, because this is new information to them. Coyote almost never gets this specific or detailed about his life in the Circuses. And two, this is probably the most they’ve heard him talk in a public setting._ _

__“We all greatly admired those ones. Even if they usually were deranged from all the mods. Then we had to kill them.” Here Coyote pauses again to think for a bit, then amends himself with: “Or at least die trying. Facing off someone who’s been on the lineups for that long is one of the scariest things I’ve ever done in my life.”_ _

__Toriel is looking a little queasy. “You – you, ah, were still able to defeat them…?” Evidently because Coyote is still here. But to her shock, Coyote shakes his head._ _

__“No,” he says with a slight frown. “I think I died that time. But I’d been modded enough at that point that the engineers were able to bring me back.”_ _

__“O-oh. Well.” Toriel blinks slowly like it’ll help her digest all this awful information more smoothly. What does one say to that? The new concept that Coyote has presented, saying that he would not have been allowed to die even if he had wanted to? That at some point in his life, his entire existence had been in the control of other people, and even escape through death had been taken from him. In the end, she settles with, “That’s very fortunate. I’m glad I’ve gotten to know you. It would be very sad if we never had the chance to meet.”_ _

__As Coyote levels a now-familiar confused look at her, Frisk turns to hug him. He’s relaxed enough in this situation that he doesn’t stiffen up like he usually does. “Yeah, I’m glad that we were able to become friends,” they say into his shoulder. “Life at the compound would’ve been horrible otherwise. I’m pretty sure I’d run away sooner or later.”_ _

__“That would not have been smart, as it is very difficult to survive solo outside of compounds and even smaller parties.” Coyote tells them solemnly, because Coyote does not know how to tell a joke to save his life. Frisk giggles a bit at the dead serious expression on his face._ _

__It doesn’t even seem to occur to Coyote that what he has endured in the CyberCircuses is something straight out of a horror film, that the scars he carries and his modifications are a result of brutal abuse and inhumane violation._ _

__For that matter, it doesn’t seem to occur to Frisk either. They obviously know what has been done to Coyote is wrong, and they dislike how those experiences have shaped their friend, though they don’t dislike who Coyote is, specifically. It’s just that Frisk isn’t horrified by it like Toriel is. They seem to have skipped Toriel’s initial reaction of abject horror and gone straight to feeling outraged at the injustice._ _

__It’s clear to Toriel that she still hasn’t gotten the full account of their experiences and litany of traumas on the Surface. To be honest she isn’t sure she wants to know. And it seems that the children are past that point anyway, have accepted that these atrocious acts are simply a part of the world they live in, and are trying to move past that, too. It’s enough to give Toriel a headache._ _

__She doesn’t know all of it, but she has gotten a glimpse into that nightmare now, and she honestly doesn’t know how the two teenage humans can bear it._ _

__And yet they do bear it. Frisk carries it with an attitude that can only be described as _cheerful_ , and Coyote seems to have found peace and contentment just by deciding to cement himself to Frisk’s side for the rest of his life. _ _

__Toriel is pulled from her thoughts when she feels a tug at her sleeve. She looks down and sees Frisk looking at her with something like sympathy and understanding in their eyes._ _

__“Sorry,” they say, like they know exactly what Toriel is thinking in her head right now. It is perhaps a little scary the way Frisk so easily intuits the emotions of other people like they’re merely skimming the pages of a book. “We probably shouldn’t have told you all that. Doesn’t exactly make for a good afternoon chat, huh?”_ _

__Toriel pats their hand comfortingly, though her heart aches for these two humans sitting beside her. “I’m alright,” she murmurs, “Besides, I think it was about time I learned more about the Surface.” She tries to smile past the lump in her throat, and should have known it won’t fool someone like Frisk._ _

__They tilt their head curiously. “It’s okay if you aren’t, though,” Frisk says easily, then shrugs. “But don’t worry about us. You don’t have to. We’ve got each other’s backs, Coyote and I, and there’s nothing I’d change about that.”_ _


End file.
